Four Pairs of Shoes Giles Never Bought and
by zandra-x
Summary: The whole title is Four Pairs of Shoes Giles Never Bought and One He Did. Four things that might have happened during various times if Giles' fate had been different and a pair of shoes Giles probably did buy. All rated G except one rated T


Title: **Four Pairs of Shoes Giles Never Bought and One He Did**  
Author: **zandra x**  
Rating: Ranging from G to Adult, individual stories will be rated.  
Disclaimer: Joss is Boss.

Rating: G

**Four Pairs of Shoes Giles Never Bought and One He Did**

Part I

_if Jenny hadn't died..._

"Come on, Rupert." She grabbed his hand and pulled him firmly along.

"I don't know...I mean...this is not what I had in mind. At all," Giles said as they weaved through the tourists and shoppers on the sidewalk.

"It's Hawaii. You have to dress accordingly. It's in the fine print when you buy a plane ticket," Jenny smiled at him. They'd been here for three days and they were still continually smiling at each other.

Giles shook his head slightly. "I was hoping for some more grownup tropical attire. I pictured myself in an immaculate white suit. Perhaps a straw Panama worn at a rakish angle. Instead," Giles looked down at his outfit, "you've got me in a shirt festooned with exotic birds in garish colors. And shorts. I ask you, is this an ensemble a librarian can wear with dignity?" They had stopped walking and Jenny was studying a store window.

She turned to face him and wrapped her arms around his waist, smiling up at him. "Mmmmmm, sexy legs! You should always let me pick out your clothes. We just need to buy one more thing and we'll be done. Then we'll find a deserted beach and you can read love poems to me." She gave him a quick flurry of kisses. Giles felt his muscles tighten in desire. He ran his hands up and down her arms.

Even in the short time they'd been on the islands her skin had turned lightly golden where the sun touched it. She was born to be here. He had become brightly pink; he slathered on the sun tan lotion and knew that this was the best that was to be expected.

Everything they left behind--Sunnydale, vampires, the Watchers' Council-- all seemed very far away and part of some other life. Taking a two-week vacation from helping to keep the world safe seemed very justified right at this moment.

"Just this shop, I promise," Jenny pulled away and began walking toward the store's doorway. "We should think about souvenirs, too. For Buffy and the others."

Giles followed her in and looked around, "Souvenirs?" He glanced at the racks of vivid shirts before him and gestured. "Perhaps, we should buy three of these in the same pattern and distribute them to Xander and the girls." He leaned in close to Jenny and lowered his voice. "Imagine the confusion in a vampire's mind when he comes across a Hawaiian-themed Slayer and her helpers in a dark alley."

Jenny laughed and moved toward a shoe display. "You need these," she said. She picked up a pair of flip-flops and held them for Giles to see.

"No!"

She looked pointedly at his feet "You can't wear running shoes and socks on the beach. You'll bring a ton of sand back to the hotel with you. You need flip-flops."

"I do not need flip...I refuse to even say the word. No. I won't even be able to keep them on."

"So, you'll learn a new skill, toe-clinching." Jenny held a flip-flop in each hand, close to her face. She waggled them back and forth, and said in a comically stern voice. "Walk on the wild side, Rupert. Walk on the wild side."

Giles put his hands to his face for a second and pulling them away said, "Yes, all right, yes. But not that electric green pair you have. Something more...more... sedate."

"Okay, we'll find you a navy blue pair. Very masculine. Very British."

They bought the footwear and Giles slipped them on. They left the shop holding hands, with Giles taking slightly exaggerated steps as he tried to accustom himself to a different kind of shoe and lifestyle.

And that's the story of how Rupert Giles bought his first pair of flip-flops.

**The End**

Part II

Rated: T for drug use.

_if Giles hadn't left Ethan..._

They were high, of course. When weren't they? There they were, stumbling up a quiet street on a sunny mid-morning. Ripper thought they were in the East End, the houses looked a bit run down but it wasn't as bad as some of the neighborhoods he and Ethan had woken up to in the past.

"We need to find a bloody bus or a tube station. Where are we?" Ripper growled at Ethan.

"Well, since I don't have a bloody compass, I'm not quite sure where we are or how to get out of here. Really, if we go on these late night adventures, one of us should leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find our way back to civilization. Or at least be sober enough to remember the way we came in. I nominate you," Ethan's tone was less cross than Ripper's. He had a headache and didn't feel up to a quarrel. There wasn't any tea to be had in the flat they spent the night in (really, how does one not have tea?) and Ethan felt parched and fragile.

The pair continued their slow walk down the pavement in hopes of coming across something they recognized. Ripper lit a joint and after taking several hits passed it to Ethan. "We should ask directions," Ethan said in a decisive tone.

"Nobody on the bloody street, is there?"

"No, that's true."

They walked a little farther. Looking down a side street they were passing, Ripper said, "There's some people. Is it Sunday?"

"No, I don't think so. Saturday. Yes, Saturday," Ethan said.

"Then why are they going into the church?"

"No idea. Let's capture one and make it tells us where we are," Ethan said and started moving down the street.

"Rather find a pub and ask," Ripper said under his breath.

"Yes, well, needs must,"

Ripper took a last inhale on the joint, snuffed out the lighted end and swallowed what was left. He followed Ethan.

As they got closer they saw it was not the church itself that the people, mostly women, were going into but a side door of the building. The open door had a large sign attached which read, _Jumble Sale_, and below that, in smaller letters, _Bring and Buy_. And beneath that, an unsteadily drawn arrow below pointed inside.

"Just the thing," Ethan said and made to join the steady flow of people going inside.

"No, wait. Stop. I'm not going to a Jumble sale," Ripper grabbed at Ethan's arm. "Stop being a fucking prat; I want to go home."

"Tea, Ripper, 'Bring and Buy' means cake and where there's cake, there's tea. I need strengthening. And who knows what sartorial splendors we might find!"

"Cast off tatty clobber..." Ripper snarled to Ethan's retreating back. After a moment or two, he grimaced and followed him. The door led to the church's assembly hall. Ethan headed for the table which had a large tea urn on it.

"Hullo, luv, tea?" the woman behind the table greeted the two scruffy young men.

"Yes, please. Two. And..." Ethan looked over the display of baked goods, "and that delicious-looking currant bun." He looked at his friend, "Peckish, Ripper?"

Ripper had taken the cup of tea and he was going to snarl a 'no' to the question of cake, then reconsidered. "Yeah, get me a scone. Make it two of 'em." He was feeling a little hollow and Ethan had obviously decided to stay for a while.

They settled at the end of a long table to eat. Ethan kept whispering to Ripper about the people pawing through the jumble. He'd make up stories describing their lives and the assorted perversions they indulged in. Ripper, fed and tead, feeling better, snickered and leaned in close to his friend.

When they'd finished their tea, Ethan stood and said, "Let's see if there's anything worth having here." He wandered through the room, fingering a fabric here and there. Ripper followed, indulging his friend.

They came across a table filled with shoes. Ethan let out an 'ahhhhh' and picked up a pair of women's black high heels. "Just the thing." He held one of them up to show Ripper. "Look, luv."

"It's a shoe."

"It's a very large, ankle-strapped shoe, with just the correct amount of sequins sewn on. It walks delicately, well, as delicately as something this big can, that line between outré fashion and camp." Ethan turned the shoe around, studying it. "No, on second thought, it's camp. I think you should buy them. I envision you in them."

Ripper giggled. "Why me, why not you?"

"Never fit me. Here, try it on."

Ripper kicked off his right shoe, slipped on the high heel. He tried balancing on it, his hand gripped on Ethan. "See? Perfect," said Ethan, "and you won't be wearing socks. We shall have to find you some tights. Black silk, or those patterned ones, or would that be too much? We'll dress you all up and take you about. The boys at the club...oh, I can see their faces now.

"I'll look a silly git," Ripper said, as he swayed and then fell off the shoe.

"With those lovely lashes of yours? You'll look like a film star."

"You always talk me in to these things."

"Ripper, dear, I'm just helping you be the man you were meant to be. In stylish court shoes." Ethan looked at the price marked on the shoes, "For a mere 50p, you'll become a legend in some of the grottiest clubs in London. Really, cheap at the price. I'll wear my dinner jacket. We'll be divine."  
Ripper, still feeling the effects of his last joint, giggled again and dug into his pocket for the money to buy the shoes.

They asked the woman at the cash box for directions to transit. They found the right bus and as it trudged back to their own neighborhood, Ethan elaborated on what he referred to as "the transformation". _You'll go, my dear, from grub, albeit a delightfully manly one, to a beautiful, beautiful butterfly_. Ripper felt bone-weary and slumped deep in his seat. He let Ethan's talk wash over him, lulling him to the edge of sleep. It seemed to him that all his life consisted of Ethan's voice, going on and on, wrapping around him.

They spent the next few days collecting "an ensemble", as they came to call it. One of their flatmates had sisters, another one could sew; it all began to come together. Despite all their hard work planning Ripper's debut, they still had time to spend their dole money on pints at the pub where they had bleary squabbles about Ripper's drag name. _"Ruperta! Are you mad?" "Just a suggestion, dear. Don't get your knickers in a twist. Don't you think it sounds...posh." "Tosh is more like it."_ Ripper, when Ethan reminded him to, also spent time learning to balance himself on his new shoes.

On the big night they rushed about the flat in preparation. As Ripper struggled into his black silk dress, juggling his joint to avoid sparks flying and trying to adjust the bodice to look less lopsided, Ethan brought out a small bottle and said, "I've got something special for tonight."

"Magic?"

"No, no, when have I had time for magic? This white powder is perfectly mundane, yet, will enliven our evening considerably. Now where did I put that mirror?"

"Wait until my make-up's done," Ripper protested. "I don't want to end up looking like a Picasso, eyebrows everywhere."

"Yes, perhaps that's a better idea. The night is young," Ethan said.

Ripper sat down and Ethan set to work on applying just the right amount of glamour, in just the right colors to set off the dress and shoes. He brushed and blended, all the while telling Ripper how beautiful he was looking, _like Ziggy Stardust, darling, only pretty_. Again, Ripper felt encircled by Ethan's voice; it made him feel as though there were no other place in the world but where they were.

"Done!" Ethan said and with a flourish put down the mascara brush. "Go worship your gorgeous self in the looking glass, and I'll find a small mirror in which to line up our fairy dust." Ethan left the bedroom and Ripper could hear him up and closing drawers throughout the flat. Ripper stared at himself in the full-length, old mirror. The image it gave back was slightly discolored and wavy, but Ripper thought he looked quite glamorous. _Not Elizabeth Taylor, but it'll turn a few heads in a dark club._ He tried to twirl in his new shoes, but tangled up his feet and almost fell.

Ethan came back, put two lines of coke on the hand mirror he had and handed a Ripper a rolled up pound note. Ripper smiled at his lover as he took it.

Ethan smiled back.

Tonight was going to be fun. Bloody fun.

**The End**

Part III

After Season Five.

_If Buffy hadn't come back..._

So my brief as a Watcher on active duty was over. Not fired this time. Made truly redundant. If your Slayer is dead, what is there to be watched?

I made my report to the Council. And then...then...

Everything fell apart rather quickly. Dawn wanted, wanted very badly, to go to her aunt in Illinois. I think the most important thing to her was to be away from Sunnydale, and from us. Who could blame her? She must have looked at us and seen only what she had lost in her life.

Willow and Tara went to tell Angel of Buffy's death. They could not bear to be apart from each other for any length of time. They clung to each other like survivors of a shipwreck lost in a vast ocean. They, too, wanted to leave Sunnydale; they decided on finishing their schooling on the East Coast. I encouraged them; they need distraction and new challenges to put the horror of the last year behind them.

I began to feel restless myself. The magic store no longer interested me; Anya took it over completely. She and Xander began to bicker constantly. Poor Xander, he was like a man whose inner light had flickered out. No more jokes or bad puns. He became irritable, unable to hold a conversation or even stay still for more than a minute or two. Eventually he announced he'd taken a construction job in Nevada. He didn't ask Anya to accompany him. He was quite simply there one day, and gone the next.

That left me. And Spike. How I came to feel responsible for a damaged vampire, well, it's a mystery to me. He was there for the final battle; I saw him weep; he helped bury my Slayer. How could I object when he continued to show up, seeking comfort by being with the people who knew Buffy? So when I realized that I, too, wanted to leave this town, but was not yet ready to return to Britain it, I'm still not sure how, evolved into a plan in which Spike would accompany me on that most American of activities, a road trip.

We headed to Los Angeles first. I insisted, though Spike was not happy about it. I think, in the back of my mind, I meant to lumber Angel with Spike. Surely Spike's sire should look to keeping him in blood rather than I. When we got there, of course, Angel was on his retreat. Wyndam-Price was there and a very different person than the Wesley I had known. We spent one long evening trading stories and finishing off a bottle or two. He made an excellent drinking companion, full of tales of his "rogue demon hunter days" and of how he joined up with Angel. I almost envied his adventures and was sorry not to have more time to spend with him. I also saw that Spike wouldn't be staying in Los Angeles.

I explained to Wesley and Cordelia about the chip in Spike's head, his inability to harm humans, but they were beyond skeptical. They only knew him as a dangerous adversary, and in Cordelia's case, there was personal acquaintance with Spike's capacity for mayhem. To put it simply, they didn't want him.

I realize that I may have made Spike out to be a poor "orphan in the storm". Some creature to be coddled and protected. He wasn't that; he was the same Spike as always, irritating and potentially dangerous. But I did feel some obligation to him and sensed he felt a need for some connection to others and that I was what was available to him. The irony of my becoming, in defacto, a vampire's Watcher did not escape me. As it seemed useless to wait for Angel to return, I had no inclination to linger in Los Angeles, a city that didn't appeal to me, so Spike and I soon found ourselves on the freeway heading east.

We lived on a vampire's time clock when we were traveling. Driving by night, sleeping in the day. There was no hurry; neither of us had a true destination. We took in Las Vegas, because Spike said it was a vampire's dream city, then went on to the Grand Canyon, a natural wonder I always had a longing to see. We meandered. Upon settling somewhere for a day or two, we'd get a pair of motel rooms (I certainly needed a break from the cigarettes and his constant presence). I think one of the main aims of his conversation as we drove was to annoy me. We often end up talking about music and he'd say such outrageously dunderheaded things that I would soon be totally wound up, pointing out why it was nonsense and then I would notice the smirk on his face. (I'm embarrassed to say how many times it worked for him.) In these stays our schedules re-arranged themselves somewhat. I would go about in the sunlight, seeing the sights; Spike went out after dark and, presumably, did the same. When we'd both had our fill of the location, we'd move on.

We arrived in New Mexico. The cowboy cinema of my youth brought to life before my eyes. As we crossed the state border Spike, as he was driving, asked, "What'll it be, Roswell or Santa Fe? Aliens or Indians?"

"I've always been interested in the Pueblos, so naturally, Santa Fe and maybe Taos. Having spent too much time in this car with you, I feel no further need to commune with the extraterrestrial and non-human."

"Right, forgot you're a man of the past, not one interested in the future. Abandoned clay houses it is then."

We eventually got to Taos. Autumn had well and truly come. The days were short and often clouded over enough for Spike to venture out. He accompanied me one late afternoon when I went in search of an additional sweater or two to add to my wardrobe. We browsed in the shops; I was trying to find something more neutral than the ubiquitous western themes beloved by tourists. How would it look if I showed up at a Watchers' Council staff meeting, fresh cup of tea in my hand to help me through the tedium, resplendent in a knitted garment sporting a bucking mustang? It would be whispered about for weeks.

While bemused by that scenario, I found myself wandering into the boot section of the store. Some of the selections, much too brightly-colored, looked fit only for the more dazzling type of country music performer. The prices were astounding. I've had automobiles that cost less. Then I saw a truly beautiful pair in a rich, deep brown with subdued scrolling on them. I found myself picking them up; really, I felt unable to do otherwise. As I rubbed my thumb up and down the leather, I knew I wanted them. What man doesn't harbor a little boy inside who wants to be a cowboy?

My sensible side mocked me. _Boots? Whenever would I wear them? Did I imagine myself as a stern-eyed sheriff in some dusty town? Shouldn't I face the fact that I was just an ex-Watcher who'd let his Slayer down?_ I looked around the store to see a salesgirl approach Spike, tsk-tsking at him for smoking indoors. He growled at her, leaning toward her no more than a millimeter or two; she hurriedly went to busy herself in another part of the shop.

I contemplated my arrival back at the Watchers' Council. I pictured myself striding into the Board Room whilst one of those dry, pedantic meeting were taking place. My new cowboy boots tapping on the floor, Spike in tow. No, it was too absurd. No, it would never happen.

Suddenly, I knew the reason it wouldn't happen was because I wasn't going back. Not to London, not to the Council. Not anytime soon. I couldn't be circumscribed by that organization and its routine again. No more coffee and a biscuit exactly at three; no more endingless meetings with colleagues quibbling over whether a translation from the Proto-Sinaitic should be "hill" or "mound". I no longer fit in there.

I picked up the lovely brown boots and made for the cash register desk. Spike saw them in my hand and gave me an amused smile. "Gone native, Rupert?" he asked.

"Perhaps," I answered. "I've had an idea, Spike. How would you feel about a little "rogue demon hunting?"

**The End**

Both rated G.

Part IV

Season Six

_When Giles left Sunnydale, he almost made a new friend..._

The air was filled with a fine mist that morning. Again. Giles thought he'd just have to get used to that. One must admit that California had had its charms, and that they became more apparent after a week of Bath's clouded-over skies and never-quite-dry days. Still, this was home now and he felt that he slipped back into this life rather well.

He was dressed to go out. He made it a daily ritual to go out for a walk. Sometimes he had legitimate errands; some were just his excuse to leave the flat. He didn't want to be come housebound, dwelling on "things". Best to get out and mingle, if only with the street traffic.

Today's mission would be to buy a small plant or two at the garden center. Something to brighten up the flat. And something that wouldn't need much care, in case he forgot to water it.

It was a good distance to walk, but Giles enjoyed stretching his legs and breathing in the damp air. He debated over opening his umbrella but, noting that only the more elderly pedestrians seemed to have done so, didn't. He reached the garden center and was studying their array of indoor plants when he heard his name.

"Mr. Giles?"

Giles turned to see a woman looking inquiringly at him. "Yes?" he said, turning it into a question.

"Oh, I thought so. I met you the other night at that party. At the Holder's. You probably don't remember; it was a terrible crush. Nancy Bayliss."

"Of course. I'm surprised you remember _me_." Giles smiled. He did recall her; she was a very attractive woman.

"Oh, well, someone mentioned you were just back from America and I wanted to talk to you about it. But somehow, I just got swept away."

"Oh, have you been there?" Giles asked.

"Not too long ago. A lovely trip to Florida. All that sun." Nancy sighed and threw a look toward the gloom outside the shop.

Giles said, "I was in California, myself. Which is not that much different, I imagine."

"Fewer alligators, I think," said Nancy.

Giles laughed, "Yes, I suppose so." He hesitated and then said, "I met your husband, too, I believe. Nicholas?"

"Oh, that's my brother. I'm divorced and have taken back my maiden name." She gestured at the plants. "Are you buying something?"

"I'm thinking of a cactus, perhaps. As long as it will thrive on neglect."

"Oh, I know. I've come to get some bulbs and maybe a few things to stick in pots. But I'm hopeless about plants. I seem to have a withering touch. Thank god, I better with the horses."

"You keep horses?"

"No hunters or anything exciting. We have two and we board a few" Nancy said. "Do you ride?"

"I used to," Giles said.

"You should come out to the farm. The horses are always in need of exercise."

Giles said that it was very kind of her and they began to drift around the room, looking at different plants and chatting about this and that. After a time, Nancy looked at her watch and exclaimed, "Oh, I must go. I've never gotten around to buying anything and now I'm late meeting my brother and his wife."

Giles said, "I'm glad we ran into each other. I really didn't expect the garden center to be so interesting."

Nancy colored slightly, and said, "I meant it about coming out to ride. Have you got pen and paper? I'll give you my number. You could stay for dinner" A worried look passed over her face and she looked down at Giles' feet. "Do you have a pair of wellies? You probably will need them, if you do any walking around the farm. We could fit you up, I suppose..."

"Wellies? Never go anywhere without them!" Giles said emphatically, as he wrote her phone number in the small notebook he fished from his jacket.

Nancy smiled, "That's all right, then. Call me when you're free. Now I really must fly." She pulled a scarf from her pocket and tying it around her hair, briskly made her way toward the street.

Giles watched her retreating figure, knowing that he felt a little less lonely than he had when he walked into this shop. Then he thought, _Now where in Bath does one buy a pair of wellies?_

**The End**

Part V

Season Four

_Giles buys shoes..._

He goes to the mall. To the store where they sell shoes.

He's researched the subject. What else does he have to do with his time? There are all types of shoes. Walking, running, jogging, striding.

The store reminds him of something. It's a place of worship, he thinks. All the different types of shoes mounted on display, like saints' statues dotting a cathedral. The weak and infirm come to worship, seeking intercession to become fit and strong.

And there are priests. Young and intense, they glide toward you, dressed in their robes or, rather, striped shirts, to help you with your selection, to guide you to salvation. He _wanted_ to say, _What do you have for a man who's aging and alone, who's lost his job, whose purpose in life seems to have disappeared, who may be quite lost? What do you have for a man who's determined to put a brave face on it? What do have for a man who wants to...to...stave off things? At which holy shoe's altar should I light a candle? _

What he said was, "I need a pair of shoes. For running."

**The End**


End file.
